Several times during the meal, she reached for my hand. I let her have it when I could. Occasionally, my need of it was greater than hers and I explained to her that cutting the steak with only one hand wasn’t really going to work for me. We kept the talk light, but I could easily sense her frustration.

After dinner, we cleared the table, stacking the dishes beside the sink. As part of the renovation, we had put in new top-of-the-line appliances. Although we now had a good dishwasher, we were reluctant to use it. Doing the dishes by hand together had become, over the years, the time when we often discussed the problems of the day.

“Let me wash the dishes tonight,” I said. “You dry.” I filled the sinks, put in the flatware and glasses, and starting washing. I transfered the first of the glasses to the drying rack.

“I really do hate my job,” she said. Sometimes, stating the incredibly obvious seems a good way to start a conversation.

“Let’s assume you do,” I retorted. “What are you going to do about it?”